Eventide
by Hyacinthos4
Summary: As high elven society quickly changes around him, a young botanist finds himself playing a larger role than he wanted.
1. I

Tenemire Eventide was late. For most things, but today he was late for the compulsory weekly meeting with his professor. He was not late last week because he had slept through it altogether. He was not a poor student, though he often saw himself as one. He had been up late the previous night studying, working, on his necessary material, as well as on the things he had put upon himself. His mind hungered for more than what he was usually given, either because it was not enough, or because he deemed it unimportant or uninteresting. This mild arrogance came at a cost. Though his devotion and brilliance had already gained him respect in his field at a relatively young age, when not at his desk late at night, he struggled by with the rest of daily life. Such an insurmountable responsibility was to rise from bed at a decent hour, whether it be after four or fourteen hours sleep, his willpower, mighty for greater things, often failed the simple act of raising his head from his pillow. So as he turned in bed and entertained the temptation to stay there, the almost visceral reward of being able to shut back out the world for a few hours more, he knew certain consequences would await him if he did. Today, even his exhausted mind knew that what he was trying to hide from would only multiply in those hours. The previous night, he anticipated this morning's ritual: the slow climb out of the twisting depths of sleep, the mental vacillation between a compelling optimism and the insidious draw back into despair, the narcissistic belief that whatever lay outside could not be as interesting as what lay within his tottering consciousness. In an attempt to sway the conflict in favour of waking, he left the curtains of his single-room dwelling open. The bright sun, the workings of a day already begun, stirred a mild anxiety in him, he who preferred to accomplish his academic achievements and contributions slow and methodically, by the dim light of a candle, and to nobody else's clock.

The decision had been made; he opened his eyes wide, flung the sheets off himself and hopped out of bed, briefly losing balance, his body still recovering from sleep. He took as many shortcuts as could be afforded to save time. He splashed some extract of peacebloom on his face and ran his fingers through his long and wavy hair to smooth out the curls. Throwing on the same robe he'd worn the previous day, and the day before, and usual boots, he plucked a few leaves of peacebloom from his small outdoor garden to chew on the way, freshening his mouth. Lucky for him, his home was not far from the academy. He ran the usual path, exacerbating his already exhausted body, unused to much exercise. What he lacked in physical exertion, he made up for by eating very little and mostly things he had grown himself, with the occasional sweet cakes he could not help himself from. He maintained a lean figure that bordered on the unhealthy, but the vigour of elven youth sustained him. Soon the spires of Falthrien rose beyond the hill. He walked as quickly as he could up the spiralling paths and finally joined the cohort. Freywinn was preoccupied, Nathera and Tyniarrel were casually conversing. Nathera greeted Tenemire with a warm smile. Tyniarrel was happy to prove his superiority in matters of waking on time, if nothing else.

"My apologies, high botanist, I lost track of time, I thought it was earlier than it was…" his voice trailed off into an unsure silence.

"It is of no consequence," said Freywinn, putting down his quill, still not looking up. "I will make this quick; I've more important things to attend to. There is little else to say other than to continue your current studies. Nathera, you will continue your study of the native flora of Quel'Thalas. Tyniarrel, perhaps if you spent more time studying your herbs, rather than imbibing their extracts, I could give you something more useful to do; I've no time to be concerned with you so do what you will." Tyniarrel shrugged in response, seemingly unconcerned. His demeanour had won him the acceptance into the youth culture of Eversong, where he fraternised with the sons and daughters of what used to be Silvermoon's finest, so he had little else to do and pursued herbalism because that is what his father did before entering politics. He had a fine working mind, capable of more, but his priorities were different from his two classmates. "Eventide, your review of the literature on virinaissance is not trivial."

"Yes, high botanist." Tenemire was not sure how to respond. Freywinn had been given the important task of finding some way, any way, to revitalise Quel'Thalas' ecosystem after the war. Much had been accomplished, but there were still many imbalances in the native wildlife. And then there was the dread "scar" that had eluded the botanists and mages' attempts to erase its constant dark mementoes of the past. However, lately he had been pushing that responsibility onto Tenemire. It was hoped that in some tome somewhere existed the knowledge that could be used to speed recovery. The elves of Quel'Thalas had long cultivated the natural beauty of their ancestral home and valued it for its history and grandeur. To restore northern Lordaeron to its past state of natural harmony was necessary for the elves to feel restored again themselves. Their pride and masterful intellect would not allow for a future of diminished glory. So Tenemire began his search at the origins of plant life itself. Perhaps the primordial energies could be mimicked with the arcane to bring the dead scar back to life.

"You are dismissed," Freywinn said. His mind seemed to lie elsewhere.

"High botanist," Nathera said quickly, Freywinn raised his eyes, "there are whispers in Silvermoon, among the elders. There seems to be a heightened energy. I can not tell if it is good."

"Our scryers have sensed… disturbances. Some think they could be signs of attempted communication with our brethren elsewhere." Tenemire shivered. Kael'Thas, he thought. That name brought to any high elf a sense of solemn respect. What great things could be coming if he were to re-establish communication? "That is all you ought to know for now. I must now be left undisturbed." The high botanist's students stood, their minds still wandering with possibilities, before they gathered themselves and walked slowly back down. The stasis of Eversong Woods, the slow moving sun, the distant call of a dragonhawk, contrasted sharply with the anticipation of the young elves.

"Could it be him?" said Nathera

"Who?" replied Tyniarrel. 

"Kael'Thas!"

"That seems very unlikely."

"What else could Freywinn have meant?"

"A message? What matter does it make? Kael'Thas is not coming back. The sooner everyone realises that the better. We need to learn how to get on without him." 

"By sitting around all day drinking with a bunch of other nihilists?" Said Tenemire. "We better hope something happens soon. People seem to be content living in the shadows; we've no clear direction."

"And what were you doing this morning?" Tyniarrel retorted proudly.

"Studying."

"Mhm. Well I'll be off. To go drinking with the other nihilists." Tyniarrel disliked conversation outside the mundane gossip heard at Saltheril's gatherings. There seemed to be more and more lately who dismissed conversation, and even thought, of any depth. The events of their past were indeed convincing; that great ideas lead to great catastrophe. Tyniarrel sauntered off through the sun-spattered wood, back towards Silvermoon.

"Where are you going, Ten?" asked Nathera.

"Home. So I can make myself look less dreadful."

"What? You look fine."

Tenemire scoffed, "Please. I can't stand myself right now. And I hate seeing Freywinn like this; he makes me feel like such a troll."

"I still don't understand how you find him attractive."

"I don't swoon over him. It's just that he is naturally handsome and I have to work for it." Nathera began to protest. "He also seems to occupy another stratum of importance, granting life to the land through the work of his mind, and I feel so small and infantile in comparison."

"He has decades on you. And you are a wonderful botanist, but that is not all you have in life. I've seen you when you play your music; he wishes he could _feel_ like you." They knew each other only for a few years, but on occasion he found himself surprised by how well she seemed to know him already. "And, he's been acting even stranger than usual lately."

"What do you mean?"

"When he'd stare at me, it felt like it wasn't at me but through me, and had forgotten altogether that I was there."

"Well he does have a lot to contend with."

"I suppose. I still think he's a bit off."

"I'm a bit off."

"Well, maybe." They laughed. "Don't be so hard on yourself; we're all having a difficult time

keeping things together. Remember the Sunwell, my friend."

"Anar'alah."

Tenemire walked slowly back to his house, enjoying the remainder of the morning; he rarely saw mornings anymore. The sun was warm. But why could he not shake this apprehension? The times were few when he did not feel the gnawing in his mind, as if his attention were desperately being called for, but for what he could not find, no matter how he meditated. If it was not this trepidation, it was the darkness, calling his spirit down into the earth, taking all his energy to pull it back up. It was by grace that he took a few moments solace in the eternal peace of the forest. But sadly for all his race, that would not be enough.

Walking back into his house, he paid respect to his shrine, a stylised rendering of the Cathedral of Light in Stormwind, blessed there with an incantation. What bothered him greatly, though it was a thought that he could never directly acknowledge, he would not allow himself, was that his devotion to the light was no longer enough either. The arcane was so cerebral, it was order brought into the universe, how could the weak physical vessels of their spirits be so dependent on it? Knowledge of the nature of greater things is what Tenemire truly hungered for, and its absence from him, his mind's inability to grasp all perturbed him.

His house was a single room, but decently sized. It was roughly circular and vaulted in the usual elven fashion. One side held his small, one-person bed, but opulently ornamented. Near the bed was a large, curtained window. Nearby was a washing basin and mirror for shaving, and bottles of tinctures, a wardrobe too. Much of the room was taken up by the imposing desk covered in tomes and artefacts of magic. The high walls held shelves covered in yet more books, jars of specimens, and his collection of exotic plant life held in suspended animation inside glass cloches. Lastly there was a small settee and table and range. The centre of the room was covered by a heavy, dark, ornamented rug. From the keystone at the centre of the ceiling was suspended a modest chandelier that provided a dim, diffuse light that reflected off the polished white walls during the dark hours. The arched doorway had suspended from it long diaphanous curtains that flowed in and out with the breeze. The décor was dark in palette. Candlesticks and torches were placed and enchanted to alight come dusk. The doorway opened onto a small terrace with a table and chairs. In its original design, the window and doorway were to be open, however since the invasion shutters and doors had been isnstalled for fear of the lingering undead. Around his house he had planted many specimens of the local flora, some for study, some for home use. All was carefully chosen and lovingly cared for, though his home knew few visitors.

He finished what he had neglected in the morning. He washed his face properly, shaved, all except for a thin moustache and accompanying column of trimmed hair on the chin, applied some powder, brushed his hair and applied scented oil to smooth, and sprayed a small amount of perfume. He regarded himself in the mirror, clear blue eyes, cheeks with a flush of rose, the graceful curve and point of his ears, and black hair that held some tinges of light brown that shown almost red in the sunlight. He smiled before allowing himself to leave the mirror. He sat at his desk and stopped. Realising he lacked any specific direction to take. He had done an overview of many different types of magic and how they could be used to revive the plant life in the dead scar. He had even looked at druidic magic as a last resort. Another thought irked him, that he very well could continue another project he had begun. He thought of collecting samples from the field and analysing them to create a crude representation of the distribution of species ranging in proximity to the scar. Normally he would like to be able to walk around the forest and call it work, but he was tired. It was either sitting at the desk doing nothing or gathering himself and going outside.

The walk through the ruins from Sunstrider Isle was relatively short. In an effort to find a moment of peace before taking his samplings, he thought to pay the beach a short visit. The afternoon sun was hitting the water at the Tranquil Shore, and true to its name, in between wave-breaks there was almost silence. Far in the distance through the sea spray, along the sandbars he saw the primitive dwellings of some murlocs, usually peaceful creatures, but agitated since the invasion. He looked out over the ocean and thought how his ancestors millennia ago sought a new beginning from distant shores, to this place, now nearly destroyed. When would the elves run out of chances? It was little wonder why so many of his kind had succumbed to a sort of mental stasis. Whether by chance, good breeding, a cultivated intelligence, or providence, Tenemire could not accept meaninglessness, even if he wanted to, even if doing so were his only option saving him from death. Recently he had been even more unpopular than usual. His peers were passionate about having no passion, and their hostility was awakened when he appeared to point out the inconsistencies, the unsustainability, the folly of their philosophy. He was a good observer, a true sceptic, never accepting a reality until it could be reasoned. It was his faith in the power of intelligent reason that angered the others, though not they, nor he, knew that that was the real reason. Nevertheless, observation is elementary. As for solution, he was young and naïf, and a blind faith to the Holy Light was no longer satisfactory, in practise nor in stimulation. He took a difficult stance, and this was the key to his separation: that the Holy Light's silence was not a deficit in _it_ , but in _him_. His mistake however, was in the severe judgment, the scrupulosity that tore him down from the inside night after night. To expect a lifetime's wisdom so early in life! What else did he think he'd have left to learn? He had few true allies in this, perhaps none, so some of the severity was a consequence of the pressure one puts upon oneself when they believe themselves the only one capable of some important task. In addition to this was his pride again, a disdain for the "group members," that even if he were somehow mistaken, he had taken a different path, a harder one. He could weather more, sacrifice more, and ultimately survive longer.

From his musings on the silent shore, he brought his mind back to the external world. Now sufficiently motivated, he made his way to the dead scar, herbalist's satchel on shoulder. It was true, he'd prefer to sit at his desk, cup of tea beside, and read about plants, rather than go hunting for them. He also disliked such crude measurement methods. But the forest's natural beauty never lost its mystery to him. The beauty gave him hope. If somehow he could contribute, to whatever degree, to the restoration of the land to its true form, he could not be idle. He disliked however getting too close to the scar itself; another of its mysteries was its attractive nature to the undead, whose members still walked through it, though rarely left its borders. They were an aggressive bunch, however only a shadowy remainder of what had once been. At this point, they were mostly a nuisance. It was the devastation of Silvermoon that bothered him, and the elves in general, the most. Those who resided there were mostly living in ruined buildings or temporary shelters. Nobody knew what to do.

He spent some hours taking measurements, trying to hypothesise something, before deciding to return. He disliked walking through the ruins in the dark. It had become a gathering place for the despondent who had lost their homes. It was a stark reminder of the state the elves found themselves in. Upon returning home in the blue evening, he discovered a note on his door. It was an invitation and pass to one of Lord Saltheril's parties, two evenings away. He smirked. They had tried to invite him once before long ago. His aloofness came as a slight to Lord Saltheril and no further hands were extended. Why the difference? Attached to the invitation was a letter from Nathera: "Tyniarrel is making me go to this; he says it is going to be one of the biggest yet. I won't know many there, and those I do I probably won't like much! Won't you please come? We can stand together and talk about everyone else." She was the closest friend he had and he had made fond memories of the time they spent together. For some reason, she took a liking to him, and he knew at times he was not the most sociable person. Simple arithmetic tells you that any relationship must be balanced, and he knew he was obligated to go, if anything as payback to Nathera, and she seemed to be excited. "One of the biggest yet." He thought of that. What is the occasion? A sort of "party before the end of the world" scenario? He wouldn't admit it, but it had been a long time since any reckless fun, so part of him was rather excited. He hadn't worn his favourite outfit in a long time. Having awoken so early that morning, he found that he was actually tired at a decent hour. After a cup of earthroot tea, reading a few pages, and saying an evening prayer, he laid himself down to sleep. The moonlight shone down, and he felt peace, if but for a brief moment.


	2. II

Tenemire was angry with himself. During the next two days his thoughts regarding the party vacillated between a childlike glee which he then tempered to a despairing apprehension. He truly had not had much fun in quite some time, perhaps not much in his life altogether. Before Silvermoon fell, the grand balls and galas in the city never reached him through the forest on his tranquil island. Years had passed since then and he began to wonder what it must have been like, perhaps thankful he had never gone, since he could not miss what he did not experience. As much as he willed himself to be insularly content, he knew he needed more social interaction. But as the excitement built he chastised this infantile side of himself, what meaninglessness was he giving into?

Much of this excitement came from an opportunity to dress in his finest and have a reason to do so. He harboured a what he thought to be shamefully vain idea that as a young and not entirely unattractive elf he was obliged by nature to enjoy, even flaunt, what it had gifted him. With this attitude he spent much of the day before the party readying himself.

He always considered himself to be fairly put-together, however the last formal occasion he attended was when he was in his youth and for a provincial event outside the city. He remembered what the young elven men looked like. He had just begun to mature then and was supremely self-conscious. He was shorter than they, a touch rounder, and awkward. He looked at them with their wives and mistresses and felt the pain of inferiority in his stomach. He remembered when he returned home that night his round face red with tears in the mirror. Perhaps this was why he had avoided most gatherings since then. Now he was older but still young by elven standards, a young adult just beginning his real life. He had grown taller since then, and leaner from eating mostly herbs, seeds, and flowers. His face had recovered its fairness, lengthened and sharpened, outlined by carefully trimmed hair. He felt better about himself now and he was finally going to join the ranks of young elven beauty.

He consulted old portraits of what now was considered the apex of elven society, the days leading up to the invasion. He boiled water in a pitcher with oil to wash himself. Beginning with his chest and abdomen, smooth fair skin with a youthful touch of black hair, down his limbs to his feet, small though narrow and long, and rather white with pink toes from almost always being covered in his boots. He applied a tough of aromatic oil to his long and wavy hair. He tended to his beard which was long overdo for a trim. He left a thin moustache above the curved lips of which he was rather proud, a small patch of hair atop and at the bottom of the prominent chin. He then powdered his face to enhance its fairness, and applied oil to his lips. He pulled long socks up around his toned calves from walking the hills of the forest and put on a flowing ruffled undershirt.

He opened the old wardrobe and went to the back where was stored an old but richly adorned robe. He looked at it fondly and pressed its rich fabric to his nose and inhaled. It was his grandfather's and probably worn by even older ancestors. It smelt of dust, smoke, alcohol, and perfume. He pulled it over himself and with some prior enchanting it fit him better than any other garment he owned. It was thin around his waste and enhanced the subtle V-shape of his body. It was violet with threads of gold in an intricate, stylised floral pattern. The colour was dark enough to not be overbearing, and ornament sparing enough to not be garish. Finally he put on his high boots. They were not as delicate in appearance as the rest of his dress and he liked this, a hint of rustication reminded him that he was not above spending his days combing through the forest floor among the fauna which he considered the closest relatives he had. This, and they enhanced his height somewhat. He had always been self-conscious about being slightly shorter than the average elven male.

As his rituals through the day to ready himself continued he monitored the sun's movement across the sky into twilight. A cool breeze began to blow and a faint mist had settled in the forest. The sounds that surrounded his house were so familiar to him that he took notice of the slightest difference. Some time before Nathera appeared in his doorway he could hear her treading through the long grass, her gown trailing behind her. He turned to see her silhouette in the arched portal against the deep blue that preceded night. She wore a simple smoke blue long dress. Her torso was mostly uncovered. Her red hair was worn simply in braids with some curls let down and adorned with flowers. She wore rustic boots that laced up around her legs. To himself, he thought he'd have done things differently, but one could not deny the individuality of her style. Her makeup was simple; she had a naturally lovely complexion that needed little aide. The scent of peacebloom was carried in by the breeze.

"Hello!" She said. Having spent the last 36 hours to himself, such a merry greeting startled him for just a moment.

"Hello, dear. Don't you look lovely."

"And my goodness! Look at you!" She went forward and circled him feeling the robe.

"I thought I'd use this evening to fix myself up."

"Well you look amazing. But we should go, I'm sure most are already there." He shut and locked the doors to his house and they went. They walked with her arm in his. He felt thankful for the pleasure of escorting her, lovely as she was.

"It was really nice of you to make such a detour for me."

"Well I figured I'd have a better chance of getting you to go if I made sure to escort you there myself."

"Well I admit I am a bit excited. It might be a fun experiment in observation."

"Saltheril invites _every_ body." She said with a grin.

As the sun cast its last rays, the twilight birdsong and soft breeze lent them a sensation of peace. Since the fall of Quel'Thalas, walking the forest or ruins at night was considered dangerous. However the two of them together knew enough magic to protect themselves and the undead rarely left the scar and only bothered the weak. The mist thickened somewhat as their walk progressed.

After some time passed the air stagnated and the still night set in. Fire from lamps and torches could be seen through the leaves and fog of the forest and music and laughter could be heard from afar. He suddenly became rather nervous. As they approached he recognised some of the faces, though most he did not. It was indeed a populous gathering which eased him somewhat. Although everybody took note of who was there, it was possible to mostly enjoy anonymity if one wanted, especially one as mostly unknown to others as he.

What he first noticed was the diversity of dress worn by the guests. He did not expect uniformity, however he anticipated a formality which was lacking. Most of the elven men had their hair back or even cut short and many of the women wore leisure dresses. The setting was ideal, a large terrace covered in opulent rugs, settees, and pillows. An ancient tree of Eversong towered over the terrace like a beneficent protector, so high and its branches so distant that it was easy to forget unless one looked directly up. There were candelabra and lamps of fire and luminescent crystal providing diffuse light in varrying shades. There was a central domed building, simple and elegant in design but rich in ornament as most elven construction. There were instruments of music enchanted to make music without players. Tables were covered in refreshment and spirits. Elves could be seen disappearing in and out of the surrounding mist as guests came and went as they pleased. As they approached the perimeter of the guests some eyed the new arrivals but quickly returned to their drinks and conversations. Tenemire instinctively stuck as close by Nathera as he could, desperately trying to find another familiar face. She had already engaged herself in conversation and he was left standing awkwardly by.

He did see somebody he recognised, Magistrix Eredania. She was perhaps the best dressed female elf in attendance and the highest ranking guest that he could see. High elven society was insular enough that most elves were only a few degrees of separation from any other. He had no particular reason to engage her however. Finally he did see somebody else he recognised and knew. Ambershine was a sempstress whom he contracted before for alterations of his clothing. Tailoring and dressmaking was a valued and well-respected craft of the elves. Garments took much time and resource to produce and were often enchanted thereafter rendering each piece unique and valuable. Therefore most garments were inherited and passed down, requiring constant refitting.

Ambershine was goodhearted though at times could let her mouth get her into trouble. She had a reputation for being a bit of a flirt. When they had first made acquaintance at the time of his requests, she was not subtle with her interest in him. To most elven men she was ideal so when Tenemire made no acknowledgment of her advances, indeed oblivious to them, she decided to befriend him, enjoying how unlike her he was. She was wearing a white gown with red flared sleeves and a deep V cutting down the chest to a large bow around her slender waist.

"Darling! What are you doing here?" They kissed on the cheeks.

"Nathera forced me to come."

"What a nasty creature! But I suppose I must thank her, it's about time somebody new came. But have you met Saltheril yet?"

"I'm afraid not, dear."

"Well you must!" She took his hand in one of hers, a drink in the other, and swayed over to the host. He was not difficult to identify, dressed in a rich violet shirt with gold trim, and an extremely thin elven lady on his arm. "Might I introduce Lord Saltheril and Lady Elisara; this is Tenemire Eventide, the ever so talented botanist." They made due courtesy.

"Dear, isn't that that hermit who lives deeper in the forest?" Lady Elisara spoke out of her nose. Although, it was partially justified. Tenemire was not the most courteous in the past, refusing to acknowledge invitations or even greet another elf he saw in passing.

"That is me, I'm afraid." He took and kissed her hand.

"Well there's plenty of drink to go around, I'd welcome the undead if they'd behave themselves, so no matter, Eventide." Saltheril was an attractive man, however Tenemire did not burden himself with shame or attraction when the man's love interest was standing right next to him, though he did question his taste.

"We were just discussing the 'wretched,' those addicts who wander the ruins. I suggested we round them up and throw them into the scar, maybe the undead will go away if they're satiated." For some, a proud, stupid bunch, that by no skill or virtue of their own, that they escaped such a fate as a termianl withdrawal from magic that befell their brethren, gave them a false sense of superiority and security. It was difficult, after all, to accept the ambivalence of nature at times. Temperance had never been a virtue valued by the high elves, why would it have? The Sunwell was a limitless font of power, and the high elves used it to craft the greatest civilisation since the ancient empire. There were those who consumed magic insatiably however, usually lazy mages or those who wished to bypass proper training. These had been the unlucky minority cursed with madness. Others knew how to use magic efficiently like mages, or only as a tool when necessary, such as the botanists, alchemists, craftsmen, and rangers, or took to other substances to ease their urges.

The conversation paused. They formed a group on the perimeter of the party and for a moment the drone of conversations hushed slightly and they all stared out into the dark, misty abyss. From it no light, though one could convince oneself they were hearing the howls of the unmentionable denizens from the accursed place not so far from the revelry.

"Go have another drink, Elisara." Saltheril said dryly. The gaunt woman silently crept away.

"Oh, do you like it?" Ambershine took the flowing fabric from Saltheril's shirt and held it in her slender fingers. The dark, soft velvet contrasted attractively with the man underneath. He was muscular for a man who spent his time pursuing leisure, and red chest hair was proudly displayed from the deep neckline.

"I must admit I was admiring it." Tenemire said.

"My work." 

"Of course it is." The three laughed. Ambershine and Saltheril held each other's glance a moment too long Tenemire thought.

"Well, I give you leave to pursue your pleasure, here there are no sunsets or sunrises, we watch time indifferently, and the sensations of our bodies are our metric." He tried to sound philosophical, but he was an athletic man, simple in thought and taste. Tenemire begrudged the effect those words had on him however. Such a notion so contrary to everything he believed could be sinister in its simplicity, and persuasive. He and Ambershine walked arm in arm.

"Have you even had a drink yet?

"No, I had not even thought about it."

"Well that won't do." She brought him to an arrangement of crystals bottles. Many such arrangements were easily accessible from wherever one stood. "What's your pleasure?" In truth, Tenemire occasionally enjoyed a small glass of spirits he had inherited. This was only on special occasions though, or on nights that captured him. He picked up a bottle of tawny port and slowly poured the golden liquid into a small crystal glass. It was sweet and bitter, but was smoother than anything else he had ever imbibed. She must have seen the look in his eyes. "Ah yes!" They laughed.

The music was slow, deep, and rhythmic, the lighting was dim, the guests moved leisurely, altogether the party had a languid aura. As he looked about, he noticed that they were standing near a number of guests seated or lain upon rugs and pillows. Among them was Tyniarrel. Suddenly a sharp odour accosted his senses and he had an initial reaction of stomach unrest.

Ambershine laughed heartily, "Have you never smelt bloodthistle before?"

"No, I have, just not… combusted, I suppose." He tried to filter the air around his nose with a cloth. Bloodthistle was a rudimentary herb however smoking its essence was something done long ago and a professional botanist would not consider such an activity.

Suddenly, his eyes caught another elf. He was one of those partaking in the smoke, he reclined against pillows with one long leg stretched out before him, another bent at the knee beside. Like, Tenemire, he was wearing a robe, however had on soft, luxurious slippers over his large feet, instead of boots. He was tall, broad with muscle, and had the slight suggestion of a belly from a lifestyle of leisure. He however carried himself easily and elegantly. He exuded an aura of confidence and ease, perhaps it was the bloodthistle. He was young, and revelled in his youth. He laughed highly and loudly. He had a brush of red facial hair and long, straight red hair that was attractive in its unkemptness. His dark blue eyes were visible even through flamelight at a distance. The robe exposed a friendly bit of furry chest. Beside him as well was a large libation. Tenemire felt a single heartbeat and a flutter in his stomach. His face flushed with the warmth of the wine. Their eyes met for a the briefest moment and Tenemire averted his eyes to Ambershine before he could notice the other elf's hesitant smile.

"Oh of course." Ambershine leant into Tenemire.

"What?"

"I see you!" She laughed.

"What?" Tenemire said tensely.

"I see you've found an object to admire." He did not realise that he must have been staring intently at the elf. Upon this realisation he caught himself and tried to regain composure.

"No, it's perfectly alright, love. That's why we come here." Tenemire smiled at her and went off to find Nathera. He moved through the crowd with greater ease than before. He spotted Nathera conversing with Eredania. She stepped away and approached him. The friends greeted each other.

"I'm happy you're here, Ten, and not alone in the forest tonight. The magistrix made me uneasy."

"That's odd, what'd she say?"

"She herself was not at ease. It seemed like she needed to share with somebody."

"Go on." Nathera leant in and lowered her voice.

"She actually didn't share many details; she said that the magisters were warned that 'great change was upon the elven race.'"

"Well, that seems like a good thing no?"

"You'd think, but her tone was almost frightened, not anticipatory. I'm afraid things will change tomorrow, and there's not much any of us can do to stop it." At those words, and his heightened emotion from the wine, a deep chill came over him. He looked around at the laughing faces in the candlelight, the deep bass of the music, the swirling of fabric in a dance, the refraction of spirits in crystal. It was fear kept them here. Their people were broken and alone, the chaos of nature could pick them off one by one but together they could maintain an isolate of civilisation. They walked to a table and poured themselves drinks and drank to each other. Many nights passed in Tenemire's life when he looked up at the moon, static in the moment but swiftly moving upon a blink, and wished that the stillness of night, the comforting shadow, could go on forever. No such night before elicited this desire more deeply than this night.

Time passed and the night blurred around him. Decanters of endless spirits were tipped over his and all their glasses. He spoke familiarly with smiling faces of strange elves. He laughed with them, drank with them, danced with them. He took in the vapours from the long pipe and blew them out his mouth, watching them disappear in the dark. He was indistinguishable from the rest, partakers of revelry. All the while the stars in the sky spun above them.

He hadn't thought of her in some time, but he eventually spotted Nathera among the crowd. Behind her was Tyniarrel, his arms cast down the front of her torso. Her eyes were closed and they swayed together. Nathera, the beautiful creature whom he admired so, in the arms of one whom he disdained and disliked greatly. His reaction was augmented by the drink but he felt oddly betrayed and alone in that moment. He took a mouthful of the liquid and swallowed its fire, closing his eyes, and letting the deep bass strings take hold of him. When he opened his eyes again, a glint in the crowd caught his attention. Another's eyes had been on him as intently as his were on this elf earlier in the night. He was moving more naturally and gracefully than Tenemire but was able to hold his gaze, transfixing him like a snake's prey. He moved forward imperceptibly. For Tenemire, time sped and slowed, the others became fleeting figures in the periphery, he had stopped moving and remained still. As he came closer, the other elf smiled at Tenemire. It wasn't a predator's smile, it was sincere, almost sad. His eyes were affectionate and docile. At last he had arrived unmistakably in front of Tenemire. He was taller than Tenemire and looked down on him. His smile brought out another on Tenemire's face. He spoke, "Hi." The same voice as before. Softer and higher than what one would expect from a tall and broad elf.

"Hello." Tenemire broke his gaze and cast his eyes down, half-smiling.

"Would you like to dance?"

Tenemire looked past the other elf's head into the sky and said haltingly, "I would." The other elf made no hesitation after this consent, moving rapidly, almost before Tenemire could comprehend what had begun to take place. The other elf grasped his hand and pulled him in, another hand found his slight waist and directed its movement. The music was slow with a beating pulse kept by tambourines and drums, the deep strings below and the woodwinds above gave an ancient melody to dance and sway to, in and out, to spin to, once around the other, suddenly one's back to the other's abdomen. In moments of closeness Tenemire could smell the sweet smoke on the other, and a cologne natural and sweet like the trees. He exuded heat and his hands warmed Tenemire's each time they touched. Tenemire could feel only his heart inside him, the other elf's warm touch, and the beat of the music rising from his feet into his core. No thoughts entered his mind, the time that passed could have been seconds or hours, he lived for those moments only in the present experience of his senses.

Tenemire's back was to the other elf's, his large arm reached under Tenemire's and held his hand over his chest and pulled him close as they moved together. Tenemire leant his head back into the other's chest and closed his eyes. The gods had created life for this, singular moments of joy. Is this how the animals lived? Moment to moment, to sit peacefully in the forest, to take part in its endless bounty, to find love and create life, and to go willingly back into the world when the time is come. The song ended and their bodies separated but their hands remained together. Their eyes met again but only briefly. He lowered his head and Tenemire closed his eyes and their lips met. Tenemire felt almost at a loss for breath and the moment had passed before he could feel its full impact.

"What is your name?"

"Tenemire."

"I'm Sheynathren." He paused. "I would like… do you think we will see each other again?" The uncertainty of the future could not be forgotten even in this place, but Tenemire wanted nothing but to see him, to not stop seeing him from that moment.

"I would like that." He smiled but it was hesitant. Sheynathren bent down again and kissed Tenemire's cheek tenderly. He released his hand and sighed before at last leaving him in the dim torchlight, beneath the mighty tree of Eversong.


End file.
